Without a doubt, his love of the new dress was not entirely platonic, nor was it simply the love of a few chiffons agreeably assembled upon some mannequin. He was not one of those fools who became enamoured of some item of lingerie, or of a corset, or of a pair of shoes, nor was he one to stand contemplatively before the window of some great emporium which displayed from top to toe the outfit of a new bride, half chaste and half ostentatious. No, not at all. But even though the woman interested him less than the dress, the wine less than its flagon, he did not separate the dress from the woman – or rather, to put it slightly differently, and to give a more precise account of the tastes of our strange friend, he did not separate the woman from the dress.
A naked woman seemed to him to be an absurdity, an anomaly – something like a bald parrot or a plucked chicken. Such a sight inspired in him a rather painful astonishment, and in certain hospitable houses into which the imprudence of youth had at one time led him, he avowed that he had had the sensation of being in a Dahomeyan cook-shop rather than a palace of pleasure.
Greek and modern Venuses seemed to him equally culpable aberrations, and he could only admire and respect that statuary which conserved for him, if only in marble, the form and the lines of a woman’s indispensible plumage.
That very day, he encountered: the new dress!
She was made of perfectly clear mauve silk, in the form of a cone truncated at the waist. Towards the hem, she was adorned with three hoops of black ribbon – the last of which, almost grazing the ground, seemed to be the minuscule pedestal of a pretty and captious statuette. The precise neckline was also circled with black, and the shoulders and the arms were covered by a mantle of three collars of a darker mauve, from which emerged a pale and blonde flower: a delicate head.
She was a costume which would quickly become irritating, for one would soon have seen too much of her, but her debut was utterly charming. Indeed, his eyes were quite content with the demise of the cloaks and furs, satisfied by the spontaneous flourishing of the feminine shrub.
Having encountered the new dress, he instantly fell in love with her. His heart beat more rapidly; a sudden giddiness made his step lurch; his dream passed by, his joy paraded itself before him. Oh! if only that dress would consent to let him love her! Let her not be one of those insolent dresses which knocked things over, contemptuous of the purest and most sincere desires!
Oh dress, please don’t be shy!
The dress was not shy. Like so many of her peers, she allowed herself to be followed, dawdling while she passed the display-windows. Then she turned discreetly at the corner of a street where no pedestrians walked, and disappeared through a door.
It was a room like many others, seductive to a degree, too heavily scented and rather spoiled by a divan which was too large and too obvious; but the dress was there, beneath his eyes, beneath his hands. He contemplated her, he kissed her, he breathed her in and became drunk.
On his knees before the dear dress, which stood up, rigid and disquieting, he pronounced mad and gentle words, and all kinds of stupidities, in a tone suggestive of prayer.
“As soon as I saw you, I loved you … Oh, such a mad desire! … I would have given I don’t know what … You are so beautiful! …”
His pleasure, however, did not make him delirious to such a degree that he did not discern the quality of his conquest, and the kind of soul which animated the dress which was so exquisite. He withdrew from his ecstasy in order to investigate his purse, and without suffering the distraction of any odious bargaining, he met the demands which were as yet unspoken, and paid for the dress, the pretty new dress, probably as much as she was worth.
Then he recommenced his adorations, and the other let him proceed, accustomed as she was to all the most peculiar – and hence the most dangerous – fantasies. In time, though, she became a little impatient, finding these preliminaries rather long and rather ridiculous. Ordinarily, she addressed her clients directly, and having divined their tastes, briskly satisfied them with skill and precision; but this one was bizarre. She tolerated him for a few minutes more, allowing herself to be admired – as she believed – and somewhat nattered by his delicate manners. At last she became impatient with delay, thinking of what awaited her in the open air: of the sun, of the streets, of all the amours to be plucked by means of the marvellous philosopher’s stone which was her “new dress”. She disengaged him, and demanded with a smile whether she was at least to be allowed to remove her mantle.
“No, no! The dress in its entirety! I want the dress in its entirety!”
And he dragged her towards the divan, already embracing her furiously.
Comprehension dawned, and she cried: “With my dress? Never!”
She made an effort to stand up, and she tried to unhook her collar, but she felt two hands squeeze it closed again, pitilessly. Head bent back, she fell inert upon the divan, and quite unconscious of his crime, ignoring the death of the flesh with which he intended to unite his own flesh, the lover of dresses slaked his lust.
THE FAUN
She had retired early after the evening meal, weary of the innocent laughter of the little children and the forced joviality which was required of all parents at this season of the year. She felt wretched, and more than a little unhappy.
What had annoyed and upset her most of all was the way that her husband took care to put on a hypocritical show of affection whenever the eyes of the world were upon them; like all other wives, she would have preferred it if he had treated her badly in public and behaved in a loving manner when they were alone.
After dismissing her maid she drew the bolt; then, secure in the knowledge that she would not be disturbed, she was able to feel a little less unhappy.
She undressed slowly and gracefully, imagining as she did so how pleasant it would be if there were someone into whose loving arms she might melt, someone who would murmur endearments as they embraced, complimenting the slope of her shoulder and the delicacy of her knee, thus renewing the assurance that she was desirable in body and soul. She amused herself with this melancholy pretence, quite content to languish for a while in the realm of the imagination, which surely held no surprises for such as she.
Though she continued to touch herself, innocence was eventually overtaken by shame, or at least by delicacy. She stopped and picked up her dress – although, like Arlette when Robert the Devil had favoured her with his intimacies, she would just as soon have torn the garment apart instead of hanging it up. But regrets were no use; there were bad times and there were good times, and that was the way of things. She gathered a fur-trimmed gown about herself, and knelt down demurely before the fireplace.
She took up the poker and stirred the fire, rearranging and reinvigorating the incandescent logs. She soaked up the warmth, still restless with annoyance.
Why, she wondered, did she allow the hypocritical attentions of her husband to upset her so much? Could she not be more dignified? Was she not capable of sensible self-control, of keeping herself calm – on this of all nights. Why was it that she had to make herself unhappy, until she was so vexed, so overwrought and so sick at heart that she was on the brink of tears? If she could not contrive to console and control herself better than this she would soon be a nervous wreck.
The fact that it was Christmas Eve made everything seem worse; this was one of those magical days when it became a crime to be alone, when the company of others was so very necessary to stave off remorse and painful thoughts. She must try to be constructive, to make herself better – but she had not the strength of will to do it. Her thoughts wandered again, and became confused; and within that confusion there remained only one word on which she could focus her attention: Christmas! Sad, stupid Christmas!
The image came into her mind of a little girl, not long returned from midnight mass, who lay asleep in her bed, dreaming of the gifts which were brought to the infant Jesus …
But no, it was all too banal! All the world gave way annually to such sentimenta
l visions, but to what purpose? They were the meagre consolation of undistinguished souls who had not the power to evoke more satisfying illusions. Such commonplace and vulgar thoughts were insipid and silly, unworthy of the investment of her desire!
Rebelling against her memories of youth and innocence, she turned her thoughts instead to the delights of sensuality. The warmth which flooded the hearth now that the logs burned more brightly was changed by the alchemy of her imagination into a wicked titillation. She amused herself with the notion that peculiar caresses were flowing over her, like little angels without wings, hotter and more agile than the capering flames which played like demons about the burning logs.
She gave herself up to a dream of sumptuous fornication, imagining that she might sink into an unexpected stupor, a complaisant victim of desire, right there beside the fire with the fur about her – yes, with the complicity of that furry creature, of that amorous and devoted goat …
Some lascivious spirit which possessed that lukewarm chamber collected its atoms then, and began to materialise. A shadow shaped like the head of a faun fell upon the mirror which hung on the chimney-breast, and a curious draught stirred her hair, warming the nape of her neck.
She was afraid, but she was possessed by a perverse desire to inflame her fear; she did not, however, dare to lift her eyes to the looking-glass to see what might be reflected there. The feeling which flooded her being was achingly sweet; but that shadow of which she had caught the merest glimpse was alarming, strange and absurdly peculiar. She had had an impression of a solid and hairy head, of devouring eyes, of a mouth that was large and somewhat obscene, of a pointed beard …
She shivered.
He must be tall and broad, very handsome and very strong, this being who had emerged from her dream to make love to her! How she trembled within the compass of his arms! She continued to tremble, aware that she was possessed, aware that she had become the prey of some strange amorous monster which had lain in wait for her, had coveted her body.
The fur slid away from her shoulder, and immediately she felt a violent kiss scalding the bared flesh – a kiss so ardent and so powerful that she knew it would leave a visible mark like the brand of a red-hot iron. She tried to pull the mantle back to cover her shoulder – a belated gesture of modesty – but the Being would not let her do it; he seized her two arms with his own two hands. It did not displease her to be defeated so easily; the violence of the action was a tribute to her desirability. Her back and her shoulders had been made to be seen, to receive such fiercely courteous kisses; did she not owe it to herself to enjoy the fruits of her voluptuousness?
The weight of the other’s huge body pressed down upon her, and she felt the panting breath of the incubus upon her, like the heat from a forge; it made her want to laugh recklessly. “What a vile imposition!” she thought. “He is atrociously, beautifully masterful … I can see from the corner of my eye how he looks at me. …”
As she turned her head towards him, the bestial mask which was his face descended upon hers, and that mouth – so large, and certainly more than a little obscene! – crushed her lips.
She shut her eyes, but too late! For just an instant, she had seen the monster face to face, and knew that it was not the mere reflection of her self-indulgent dream – that in becoming real it had been deformed, into something so foul, so ugly, so intoxicated with a purely bestial lust that …
She was suddenly overcome with shame, and instantly straightened herself. And when she looked at last into the mirror which was mounted on the chimney-breast …
… She saw herself, naked in body and in soul, all alone in her empty, dismal room.
DANAETTE
While Danaette dressed herself after dinner, making her special and secret preparations, the snow began to fall.
Through the tiny holes in the lace curtains she watched it falling: the beautiful snow, falling, ever falling. It seemed so solemn and so sad, seemingly ignorant of the occult and ironic power which it had to fascinate the human eye. It seemed to be unaware of its own divine provenance, forgetful of those cold, bleak regions on high where its light crystals were born, disdainful of that human foolishness which analyses everything and comprehends nothing.
“There is a great battle going on in the sky,” her old Breton maid said to her. “The angels are plucking out the plumes of their wings – and that is why it snows. As Madame knows very well.”
The statement was peremptory. Madame did not dare to utter any contradiction. Every year, often several times during each winter, the old woman would impart that same confidence, always terminated by: “As Madame knows very well.” It was irrefutable, and somehow rather menacing. The old servant had similar charming explanations for all kinds of events, always brief and neat, always stated as if they were manifestly obvious.
Madame, in consequence, ventured no reply at all; but as soon as her hair was done she dismissed the old woman.
She wanted to be alone – with the snow.
Her preparations were not yet half-complete, but she could no longer concentrate upon her toilette. She sat down on the divan near the fire, and watched with patient fascination the incessant and luminous flight of the downy feathers plucked from the wings of the angels.
What a bore it had become, dressing herself up like this! Adultery was always agreeable at first, in the early days when everything was still to be discovered – when one offered oneself up to the impatient and imperious kisses of one’s lover; when one was driven on by curiosity; when one could think of nothing but the delights of a new and more complete initiation. Then, it was like a beautiful baptism in the delights of sin. But when the intensity of that brief phase began to weaken, it could never be renewed, no matter how one sought to deceive oneself; there always followed a detestable decline into ennui.
How tedious it all was! There were so many things to think of, so many excuses, so many suggestions to be made and precautions to be taken; it was all so discouraging, and – at the end of the day – so humiliating.
“It is always the same,” she mused, without taking her eyes from the falling snow. “In spite of the cold, I had better take shoes instead of boots. He made the suggestion himself! The first time, he buttoned me up again so carefully, almost devoutly, balancing my leg upon his knee; the second time, he pulled a button-hook out of his pocket and put it in my hand; the third time, he had not even thought of bringing one, and I was in sore distress.
“It is the same with the corset and the dress. He is impatient: he snatches at the hooks and gets the laces tangled up. I owe it to him, I suppose, to make up a special outfit which comes undone at a single stroke – in a twinkling of the eye I must stand naked, or very nearly. Yes, actually naked, for he wants me to wear chemises like cassocks, which open like curtains as soon as one has unsprung the tiny catches which hold them – this is the costume which supposedly suits my personality!
“But I must press on, regardless! I must put on my brassière and do up my corset, so that the old Breton will not say to me, in front of my husband, in such a scandalized fashion, when I come back by and by: ‘Madame has gone out without her corset! As Madame knows very well!’
“Ah! how beautiful the snow is …!”
They are still falling, always falling, those soft and silky white feathers from the angels’ wings.
She who had been a rebellious adulteress mere moments before became chaste and innocent again as that subtle and monotonous snow, perpetually falling past her window, exerted its hypnotic effect upon her sensibilities. The peremptory foolishness of the old maid was recalled to her mind, prompting a strange pang of sympathy for all the angels who had lost their feathers.
That would be a singular sight, would it not? An angel with plucked wings, like one of those geese one sometimes glimpsed in the farmyards of Normandy, which had yielded up its vestments in order to make soft pillows and eiderdowns for the convenience of adulterers!
It was a ridiculous, childish image – an
d anyhow, the plucked angels would still be angels, and angels were unconquerably beautiful creatures.
The snow fell on and on; it was so dense now that the air itself seemed to have condensed into a polar ocean of white stars, or a flight of immaculate seagulls. Now and then, a breath of wind would send the startled flakes hurrying across the window-pane, making futile attempts to cling and settle before sliding down to pile up on the sill.
Forgetting the adulterous rendezvous which she had planned, Danaette became inordinately interested in these unexpected turbulences which dressed the window with clustered flakes. She found a peculiar pleasure in her observation of the way these cloudy constellations would form and crumble away again, slowly and majestically, with the absolute calm of obedience to their destiny. Her eyes began to close, tiredly, but she forced them to remain open, determined that she would not give in to her lassitude, resolved to stay as she was, watching the falling snow, for as long as it might condescend to fall.
She was defeated in this intention, though; her eyes closed again, drowsily, and she slowly drifted off until she was half asleep. But in the sight of her closed eyes, the snow continued to fall …
Now, the window no longer interrupted the flight of the guileless flakes. It was snowing inside the room: on the furniture, on the carpet, everywhere; it snowed on the divan where she was lying, prostrate with fatigue. One of the fresh flakes fell upon her hand; another on her cheek; another on her uncovered throat: and these touches – especially the last – excited in her a sensation of receiving unprecedented and exquisite caresses.
Still the flakes fell: her pale green robe was illuminated by them now, as if it were a meadow spangled with fresh daisies; before long her hands and her neck were completely covered, and her hair and her breasts too. This supernal snow was not melted by the warmth of her body, nor by the heat of the hearth; it dwelt upon her body, dressing her form in sparkling attire.
The Angels of Perversity Page 10
